


Imladris Interpreted

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Poetry, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Experimental, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3782667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir and Faramir have a dream. They seek counsel from their father. Tension, insults, loud blinking, advice and some funny words.</p><p>Written in free-verse poetry. HASA Members, check out the new <a href="http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/messages.cfm?confId=2&forumId=608&messageId=31427">trailer</a>!</p><p>
  <b>2005 MEFA Award Winner: 3rd place, Poetry; 2nd place, Poem Authors</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imladris Interpreted

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

In a great Hall,  
on the lesser throne,  
sits Denethor  
mouth spread wide  
crinkling bullfrog smile  
and heavy-hooded eyes  
(like Boromir’s).  
He says:  
  
“Ah, my son, my eldest son,  
most favored and preferred,  
brave, strong, victorious  
my light and my joy,  
the good-bad son of Gondor: Boromir.

It is on you that I depend,  
not useless-Faramir,  
that minstrel runt of a second son.  
We would do good to feed  
him to a passing oliphaunt  
in exchange for some Haradrim spices  
and a truce.

_Ha!_

Nay, do not squirm, Brave-Boromir,  
I know you would defend him,  
but save your energies  
and defend your City instead.  
For we all rely on you,  
our Captain-General and my first, my best.  
You are our sword.”

“Every day I spend defending the White Tower,  
my lord.”

“And yet the Shadow grows,  
it looms dark over us, growing growing  
ever larger, ever blacker,  
ever fouler  
covering the land killing the land  
forcing the people to flee.  
You must rally our forces,  
and make savage bloody war,  
it is our only hope.  
War for peace, my son.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Now, what did you need?”

Hesitation.

“I have dreamt…  
…something strange…  
it comes to me  
it comes to runt-Faramir  
and we are much beguiled by its drone-commands.  
It says:

_‘Imladris holds broken sword,  
Counsel fair and wise,  
Also there a token stored,  
And Halflings up shall rise.’_

This dream it screams  
and on the word ‘token’  
cries ‘Isildur’s Bane!’  
Father, what does it mean?”

A lengthy pause.

Heavy, slow breathing.

Denethor thinks.

Impatient as he is,  
before Brave-Tall-Bold (and everything else) Boromir  
can restrain himself:  
“Well?”

“Do not ‘well’ me!  
I am thinking.”

Eyes averted, mumbled apology.

Silence like a tomb,  
echoed breathing  
and audible blinks.  
Finally, Denethor looks up:  
“You say your brother has dreamt the same?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Bring him in. He is waiting outside.  
I will hear his story out.  
And you: go, sharpen your sword,  
flex your muscles  
and wait for us by the door.”

Boromir bows, exits, scuffing boots.  
In walks Faramir,  
not a runt,  
but as Tall-Brave-Bold as the other,  
except by misfortune and circumstance,  
seen poorly in his father’s eyes.  
Faramir’s voice is soft,  
like a warm breeze on an autumnal afternoon  
like a patch of green grass by a winding stream  
like thoughts that bring a smile.  
He asks:

“You called, father?”

“Tell me, Faramir,  
your elder, your better, brother  
speaks of a dream  
beguiled by it  
swears curses thinks of it  
and seeks my counsel.  
Tell me what it says.”

Without hesitation, and closing his eyes,  
Faramir squints shudders repeats:

_“Imladris holds broken sword,  
Counsel fair and wise,  
Also there a token stored,  
And Halflings up shall rise – ”_

“That is enough, boy. Bleagh! I hate poetry.”  
Denethor interrupts at the end  
(Faramir is no boy, he is a Man…)  
“So it is true, then, both my sons  
hear the same call.  
Bring in your elder.”

Boromir back.

“I, Denethor, am greatest of lore-masters  
in the world of mortal Men.  
I know, I see, I read, and I am wise.  
You are my sons, my only sons,  
on the receiving-end of this mystery call.  
And so I tell you this:  
Imladris was called of old  
home to Elrond, Halfelven.  
Far it is, and hidden  
among perilous paths northern dale.  
Quasi-certain death.”

Faramir cuts in  
(he is so fair and wise,  
but hated by his father):  
“Aye, then it is a warning,  
and we must heed the call.  
Send me to Imladris, father,  
and I will bring back whatever aid may lie there.”

Denethor pauses.  
(Mayhap this is a good way  
to finally rid himself  
of the runty one?)

Boromir will not allow it.  
“Nay, my lord, nay, the road…  
‘tis perilous, long, arduous, villainous.  
Near death, you say?  
I am the stronger,  
I am the taller,  
I am the bolder,  
(so you say, father; sorry, brother)  
and though I know little of elfish-kind,  
send me instead.  
If there be counsel or helpful-weapon,  
leave me to take it, wield it, bring it forth.”

“Brute-Boromir,”  
Faramir chokes spits disgusted,  
“know you the way?  
Know you the elves?  
Know you anything save war  
and battle and sword?  
Stronger, bolder, taller? _Ha!_  
Consider this:  
While you have but heard  
the dream-whisper once,  
I have heard it many times over,  
and examined it, over,  
and turned it over in mind.  
Over and over and over.  
What awaits us there,  
whoever should go,  
cannot be wielded like a blade,  
it is no physical device,  
it is no sword, no spear,  
no battle-strategy, no barracks,  
and thus you – Brute-Boromir,  
will have no defense  
and  
no  
place.  
For what sits there in Imladris  
is a mind-struggle, a higher thing,  
ready to wrap around your tissue-thin spirit,  
and squeeze it shut!  
Spilling all the good-syrup out  
and leaving only the acidic bad:  
your arrogance, your pride,  
your greed, your hard-head.  
Father, do you not agree?”

Boromir offended, shocked, mouth hanging open on a hinge,  
after all he was just trying to protect Faramir…  
but surely father will –

“For once, for strange, for the first time and the last time,  
perhaps in my life, in my mind,  
Faramir: I agree with you.  
Go, go to Imladris.”

“What? No!”  
And now Boromir must use  
the singular weapon he cannot wield  
but for clumsy thrusts and battle-roars: his tongue.  
Well? Say it. Say why you should go. We’re waiting.  
“I…”  
Good beginning.  
“Father, I should go.  
These are dark times,  
desperate times,  
and I think –  
mayhap, my lord, I can serve  
the White City as well there  
as here.  
Faramir condemns me to a weak spirit  
hard-head, easy prey for mind-weapons.  
(And perhaps that is what lies at the end of my road.)  
But, my lord, we cannot defeat Mordor  
with brain-struggles.  
We need a weapon, a real one,  
something large something powerful  
something to use against Sauron  
and put a finish to all of this.  
If Imladris holds such a thing,  
then only I, not Faramir, could bring it back,  
use it, free the White City  
from Sauron’s black grasp.”

That was convincing enough.  
Denethor looks first to Boromir,  
then to Faramir,  
then back to Boromir.  
In his eye: from strong to weak to strong.  
And he decides:

“My son, this is why I cherish you so,  
you have the mind of a leader,  
and you think for all of us.  
Faramir, your brother is right.  
A mind-weapon is of no use,  
and if this is what dwells in Imladris,  
then we shall have time wasted.  
But if instead it is an arm  
of such length and strength  
that we may hope to finish off  
the Evil,  
I say only Boromir can take it.

And so it is settled.  
Boromir, be off.  
Find Imladris, find our protection and restoration,  
we will await your return  
every day from Ecthelion’s.  
And you, Faramir,  
make yourself useful  
and be out of my sight.”

Slamming doors, boots on marble,  
the talk is finished.

Outside: Boromir Faramir  
glaring snapping bullying  
like two great tigers-bulls-warriors  
stalking the same prey.  
A push, an insult, a curse,  
a swing, a miss, another curse.

“Be-plagued, scoundrel brother,  
are you not satisfied?  
Favor, love, admiration,  
preference, rule, victory,  
all laid on your alter  
grease on your lips  
slaves at your feet  
like a fattened Haradrim prince.  
Praise, Boromir, praise him indeed!  
Thick-headed thug…”

Bristling Boromir, burning  
fists clenched,  
fingers itching for the sword.  
“Thick-headed!  
Why always thick-headed am I?  
I  
am  
not  
thick-  
headed!  
Because I am no bandy-legged  
little minstrel poet  
droopy puppy-dog gaze  
singing to the stars  
on my nights off? Bah! Bah!  
Wails and songs and moonlit tunes,  
you slippery sloppy dove,  
with no place in this war,  
get you to the library, elf-dandy!”

Swords, fisticuffs, brouhaha!  
A thrust against the wall,  
slam-punching in the stomach,  
wheezy exhalation and a grunt.  
Flit flit goes the sword,  
clanging once twice and then flit  
against a cheek.  
Bloody, bruised, on and on,  
(brothers do this, you know, fight)  
and through falling teeth  
red gums, eyes swollen shut:

“Mindless senseless troll,  
arrogant bastard!”

“Useless whimsy runt!”

“Neeargh!”

“Oof!”

After a few more minutes  
of skirmish,  
final knee in the crotch,  
last elbow crack jaw,  
the brothers flop down, sit:  
“Enough, enough,  
you give me cauliflower ear.”  
Faramir gasping, clutching his knee.  
Boromir wiping blood from his nose.  
The older, good-bad son of Gondor,  
and the younger good-wise brother.  
The elder stands, wipes his clothes,  
puts out his hand,  
helps the other up to his feet.  
“Enough, then. I prepare my horse,  
and leave before dawn.”

Goodbye, my brother.


End file.
